


Northern Lights

by WhiteWolfAmarok



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ancient Viking AU, F/M, Historical, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Other, Romance, this-is-so-scary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteWolfAmarok/pseuds/WhiteWolfAmarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is taken captive during a Viking raid. Given to a surly, dark haired Viking as a gift, she will learn not only how to adapt to her new home, but to the blue eyed man known as "The Dragon".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Northern Lights

 

**Northern Isles, AD 850**

 

***********************

 

Moira Hooper stood at the gate of her family's field, watching as two young foals skittered through the grass, tails high and tiny hooves flicking dirt as they went. She smiled softly and took a deep breath, the salty sea air tickling her nose. Some of her hair, auburn and brown in color, slipped from the loose braid it was held in and tickled her cheek. She was dressed for summer; a dress of deep blue with a thin chemise of white beneath. At her waist sat a belt of twisted gold, the only bit of adornment to grace her person. Her feet were clad in sturdy leather boots, as she often worked alongside her father, who was the doctor and lord of the local keep and township of Fox Burrow.

"Molly! Molly Anne! Where be you, girl?" Seamus Hooper was a large man, built like a bear with a face to match. However, no where on the islands that made up Shetland was there a more gentle soul. Molly picked up her skirts and turned to run down the path from the field towards the manor.

"Papa! How did the birthing go? The child? Sally?" Seamus swept her up into his burly arms as she came to him, chuckling as he swung her around. She protested with a squeal and pressed at him shoulders.

"Papa! What happened?" She asked. Molly had long desired to learn her father's trade; she'd never shied away from blood, and had seen much death since the Vikings from Orkney and further north had come along the coast, raiding and plundering nearly unchecked.

"That Sally is a fighter. She bore her daughter with the same strength she uses to do everything else, Molly love," Seamus said as he turned his daughter and led her towards the keep. "I was not truly needed, but you know how Anderson frets."

Anderson was the town blacksmith, a man of little drive or inner strength. Molly never would understand how a woman like Sally could ever marry such a spineless creature, but then she herself was nearing her twentieth year and had yet to marry anyone. She secretly hoped to find him one day, but none of the men in her village even slightly piqued her interest. The two walked back towards the keep, talking of the birth and the newest addition to their village. As they passed townspeople, Seamus was stopped often with questions, complaints and comments. Molly waited patiently, listening as her father delegated and calmed those who came to him. However, not all the people who came had simple problems. One particular subject continued to arise.

"Milord, I have heard from a passing farmer from the lower Shetlands that Viking longships have been spotted cruising the coastline. They have come closer and closer since the summer months began!" said one man, and a gasp spread through the small crowd of people that had gathered. Seamus called for quiet.

"If they come we will be prepared. I suggest we do not panic and remain alert. Until they have passed our shores, do not go out alone, and we will be more vigilant at night. They might not be looking for trouble at this point. It is early for a raid." Seamus' words seemed to calm some of the villagers, but Molly could see a tightness growing in her father's shoulders. He was more concerned than he let on. It was not a light matter where Vikings were concerned. They were a bloodthirsty race; set on destruction, rape and plunder. She shivered as she imagined the curdling cry of the Norse warriors. She wondered how anyone could be so cruel as they. She didn't realize her father was preparing to leave until he placed a gentle hand on her arm.

"Molly? Are you a'right?"

"Yes, papa," She said, "I'm just tired."

 

********************

 

 

Mycroft Holmesson stood at the helm of his longship, blue and white stripped sail flapping strongly from the mast, the snarling dragon at the helm cutting through the waters like a knife. His men worked as a unit; rowing as one, never pausing in their strokes as they propelled towards the Shetland Islands. Mycroft had been sent by his father to negotiate with their Viking brethren along the Irish coast, as the Danes had begun to show great unrest and talks of war peppered the air.

Mycroft was thinly built; short on stature and hulking musculature. However, once their allies sat in conference with the man, they soon found that weakness was not a word to be associated with him. Mycroft's power was not in his body but in his mind. He was able to anticipate any problems that could arise, swiftly side stepping them and talking his way into pacts with ease. He was sharp and swift with his words, and manipulated the people around him deftly.

The men he led respected this, and as such Mycroft rarely if ever had to lift a sword. However, he was still a Viking, and his men were itching for battle. The Shetland coast was rife with wealth this time of year, and Mycroft knew that many of these people were not seasoned warriors and would easily fall to his men. Perhaps a few golden trinkets, horses and slaves would quiet the slashing tongue of his younger brother, who was always quick to point out that Mycroft's avoidance of needless bloodshed proved that he could not, in fact, stomach the act at all.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, moving to stand beside the ship's captain.

"Milord?" Gregory responded.

"At twilight we will make landfall at the keep that sits along the cliffs. Prepare the men," Mycroft said. "We will strike quickly here, as I do not wish to delay our return home any longer than necessary."

"Right, milord." Gregory moved down the deck, shouting orders and rousing the men into action. The word spread quickly and the men were soon selecting their armor and weapons for the skirmish. Mycroft smirked slightly. Soon he would have new horses for his father, jewelry for his mother and his wife, and proof for his annoying, tiresome brother.

 

*************

 

Molly woke to the smell of smoke. Wrinkling her nose, she threw back the soft woven blanket covering her bed and slowly crept towards her doorway. As she neared it, she could hear shouts and screams echoing through the stone halls. She gasped and looked around for the small sword her father had gifted to her when she was younger. Grasping the handle tightly, the young woman burst from her room and raced towards the great hall. The sounds of fighting and dying grew louder, as did the stench of burning wood and blood.

Seamus Hooper and his vassals were in the middle of a melee with several warriors, doing their very best to fight off the invaders. Molly tracked her father, knowing that against these men she had no chances. She would be better served helping any wounded. However, she could not just leave her father, and watched with horror as he was slowly worn down by the fierce Norsemen. At once he fell to his knees, and before she knew what she was about, Molly was raising her sword and screaming for all she was worth. She charged towards them, heedless of the dangers now. She slid in front of him, tiny arms holding her sword steady as her eyes blazed with fury.

The viking standing before her stopped his attack, seemingly surprised. His helmet his his face, but Molly got the sense that he was assessing her. Her father grabbed her shoulder with a roar.

"Moira Anne, Get out o' here!" He snarled. The movement snapped the viking into action. Her father barely had time to parry the thrust of his axe. "Go, girl! Run!" She couldn't. She wasn't a coward, and she wasn't going to let her father die.

She made to charge them again when an arm stole around her middle and lifted her clean off her feet. She clawed and kicked like a wild animal, cursing and fighting with all her strength. A hand clamped down upon her sword hand, and a voice sounded next to her ear.

"Drop it, girl."

She shook her head furiously. The hand over her own squeezed harder. The pain was terrible, and her fingers began to tingle. The viking set her down and swung her to face him. He too wore armor, but his face was uncovered. He wasn't tall and fair like many vikings, but power emanated from him. His short hair was slicked close to his skull and his blue eyes blazed. His thin lips were pulled back into a sneer.

"Admit defeat, child. You cannot win," he said.

She was frozen by those eyes; clear and cold. There seemed to be no life in them. No feeling or soul. A sharp cry startled Molly and she turned to see a viking axe cleave into her father's chest. A terrible scream rent the air, tearing through the sounds of destruction, and Molly vaguely realized the sound came from her. Her father's face was the last thing she saw before a solid blow to her temple sent her into blessed blackness.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is obviously an AU set in an ancient Viking era. I'm sorry for any mistakes or historical faux paus, but I did only basic research for this. MizJoely has inspired me to write historical Sherlolly, so if you want something really awesome, go check her out!


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